I'm supposed to be writing this paper for my cultural anthropology class. Instead of writing,however, I'm dilly-dallying about online, and having a bad case of writer's block. Then again, I'm not sure if it's writer's block or my urge to go about other things that seem more interesting to me right now (like looking at random people's profiles, read this new magazine I bought yesterday while on my way home, or just putting an entry in my blog).

I think I need a cigarette.

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Date/Time:Saturday, July 22, 2006/09:20 a.m.

I'm so fucking tired. I wanted to wake up today around 7:30 in the A.M. to work on this paper that's due tomorrow at 7:00 in the P.M., but instead I kept hitting the damn alarm clock. I ended up waking up around 8:40 A.M. and now it's 9:20(1) and I have to head out the door around 9:30 if I want to go to the store and be in work around 10:00.

If time doesn't exist, I'm somehow going insane.

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Date/Time:Wednesday, July 19, 2006/01:42 a.m.

Myspace is too much. I mean, really. It's. Too. Fucking. Much. Once again, I managed to fuck myself over, and dive into a My Space page simply because my cousin invited me. I told them (including my mother) If they were going to join a networking site, then join Friendster. It's the equivelent of My Space without all the hype and jail bait trotting around. But, nooo. The great thing is that I chatted a bit with a friend of mine back in high school, and there's a picture of my bomb on this horrid site!

Oh, the things I do for family (and how I resent myself afterwards)!

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Date/Time:Saturday, July 15, 2006/01:05 a.m.

Well, a couple of days ago (on last Tuesday) I was walking home after going back outside because I was determined to purchase a bottle of addicting, caffeinated shit that is made in exploited working conditions. Anyhow, when I glanced up at this unusually red moon, I was so excited about it that I wanted to tell someone, anyone. Well, when I realized that anyone remotely close to me had either the IQ of a jar of mayonaise or didn't speak english, I walked back up to my apartment, and walked out infront of the complex to share these pictures with you, dear reader:

Strange, yeah?

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Date/Time:Friday, July 14, 2006/01:09 p.m.

I've completely lost my voice. All I can make is this whispering sound and an occasional low tone that sounds just bloody awful. Regardless, I can still smile.

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Date/Time:Wednesday, July 12, 2006/12:05 p.m.

I dropped a honey cough drop in my chai, and it was the strangest feeling ever.

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Date/Time:Tuesday, July 11, 2006/12:01 p.m.

For the past two days I've been sick. It's been fever, dizziness, and pain in the throat region and it's always the most annoying pain imaginable. I guess it was nice that I had these two days off because it gave me time to just relax. Anyhow, the tat on my shoulder is fine (all that worries over it scabbing [which means that it's healing]) and I woke up this morning with this feeling of elation. Why? No clue, but It's a nice pace. Usually the couple days into sickness I get this feeling; it's almost of a hallucinogenic, wonderful feeling (like your body is producing endorphins to compensate for the pain).
And on that dizzy note, I must eat and head off to work in this nauseating heat.

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Date/Time:Sunday, July 9, 2006/12:54 a.m.

I can feel the lump in my throat that gets bigger and bigger until your nose is running and your voice sounds like a dead body free-falling into a thousand dead branches. I'm exhausted and I know once my head hits that pillow I'm done. I still have two tests to take, and a paper to revise because some jack-ass decided to pop his section of the paper on me at the last minute.

I won't even get into the tattoo on my shoulder. I have no idea what the fuck is going on with it.

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Date/Time:Wednesday, July 5, 2006/12:33 p.m.

My hair used to be the natural and the blonde up front, now it screams of dead, dark leaves; the one at the bottom that that's all mushy from some unknown source of water (possibly dog urine.)

Anyhow, I'm shaking and my mind is almost screaming and I can't shut it up. My body isn't sore, but I shed tears for pain. He doesn't understand, and no one does. Write, write, write, dear. Write until blood pours from your fingertips all over your cigarette burned Compaq keyboard.

P.S. Happy birthday to me.

--

Date/Time:Tuesday, July 4, 2006/08:57 a.m.

The illegal fireworks popping off in the streets make all worth it.

FYI: I turn twenty tomorrow.

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Date/Time:Sunday, July 2, 2006/10:02 p.m.

Today, D---'s mum, aunt, and I went to this "invitation only" garage sale that was pretty much run by middle-class hippies. I was a little hopped on starvation as well as the nervosity stirred up from the fact that D--- hadn't come home yet (which turned out to be not much but a humorous story of him and what I like to call his "bitches" [He claims the alpha male, and the rest just fall into place]).

So here I am, cross legged with a cup of brewed coffee in my right hand and a strawberry in the left watching all these middle class wives pouring with their husbands and a couple of very-little-English-speaking Mexicans. So the deal was that the sale starts at nine, and then people go apeshit. Well, that was pretty much the case. I managed to get two super cute dresses (one that's a little big, but I couldn't pass up because you don't find dresses like this one for every day) and a button-up leopard-print shirt.

I was a little weirded out at being in some strangersí house, and looking at hideous artwork on the walls, running into people and just the whole experience in general. If I donít do my field study on the Tropicana exhibit, Iíll do it on this. It was just bizarre.

FYI: Here is my heart, fixed and bold thanks to my love. Not bad for my first tattoo being an amateur one, yeah?

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Date/Time:Sunday, July 2, 2006/03:12 a.m.

I have a total of .07 thanks to this fucking hole in the wall. Seriously, If you don't know how to work a fucking ATM card machine, then don't fucking offer the fucking service.

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Date/Time:Friday, June 30, 2006/10:27 p.m.

Well, I'm thoroughly tickled D--- had a nice birthday, and he's definitely enjoying his tattoo gun. Speaking of which, I have this scribbly, unfinished, little heart (notice the wonderful peds-sock tan and the fluke of a palmtree on the T.V.) on the back of my left heel, and this terrible feeling every time I look at it. Although, It's partially my fault because of a ridiculous argument, frustration and, he accuses a lack of trust which I've told him time and time again is completely not true. Regardless, it will be fixed; By him, of course.

Earlier that day I went shopping with his sister and his mum (which I adore endlessly, like him) and I went all out with blood red towels, martini glasses, a bamboo cutting block, and clothes (which D---'s mum bought me for my birthday) as well as a red and white striped polo for the skinhead with his "botha-boots." Anyways, I bought these jean capris and apparently they were "Sexy cut." Sexy cut? Well, my stupid-ass bought everything without trying it on, and when I came home, I found out that "sexy cut" means tight ass jeans that leave about three inches from your puss(and I'm not talking about your face, ladies). I wore them to work today and it was pretty much a big mistake, because all day I wanted to pull them up. There was nothing to pull up. Regardless they're cute, and they go well with the new shirts I bought as well as my new leopard print, chuck-esque, mary-jane sneakers.

Hooray for one-sided girl chat.

--

Date/Time:Wednesday, June 28, 2006/12:14 a.m.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, LOVE!

(So sad you're at work. Regardless, I love you. Terribly.)

--

Date/Time:Monday, June 26, 2006/11:49 p.m.

sleepy.

--

Date/Time:Monday, June 26, 2006/12:39 a.m.

I just spent a total of almost eight hours completing this assignment. I'm not sure if it was executed correctly because i don't have D-- looking over my shoulder correcting me, and helping mewith my citations. My left shoulder hurts, and I have to manage to get a load of laundry done so I can have a fresh pair or panties, clean pants for work, then crawl into bed to wake upat 7:30 to meet D--'s mum to pick his sissy up from the airport. Afterwards, it's off to work I go around 2:00 in the p.m.

I miss him. Terribly.

--

Date/Time:Saturday, June 24, 2006/09:15 a.m.

Well, I some how have to produce a painting in two days and counting. Beyond that, I'm attempting to get myself in this motivational-"You can accomplish anything"-type mood, so I'm not laying in bed sobbing with homework piling up and feeling guilty for missed birthdays (as well as my own). This bloody Anthropology class has gotten me by the balls (if i had any)and all I want to do is a clean escape with an A. Fuck, I wanted to take history.
Anyhow, I've got to go. Work is in about 40 minutes.

--

Date/Time:Wednesday, June 14, 2006/12:11 a.m.

Egh.

--

Date/Time:Saturday, June 10, 2006/06:57 p.m.

Well, this has been quite the few weeks, and I can say that I'm officially at an all time high. Itís high in reference to stress, pain, emotions, and Styrofoam. Birthday's are coming up, schedules are shifting, money is fleeting and all I can hear is D-- saying, "that's life." For some reason Dr. Phil pops in my head and says, "Life is what you make of it." Dr. Phil, you're a fucking genius. If life is life but life is also what I make of it, does that mean one must endure life and also have enough will power to conform it to what one desires life to be?

Duh.

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Date/Time:Wednesday, May 31, 2006/11:41 a.m.

I took off work yesterday. It was slightly relaxing, but all that fell through when the stress of buying a textbook online had hit me in the face. I don't want to get into it, but all I know is that if I end up with two of the same book I'm going to be pissed, majorly.

After this weekend, I needed a day off with all the hurt feelings, pain, love, and truth. It was very emotional and I guess you could call it life-affirming. As usual, money's tight and I get a little tense when the word "cigarettes" or "beer" is mumbled. Sigh. Double sigh.

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Date/Time:Friday, May 26, 2006/10:31 p.m.

I live with this rat. This rat, that is technically a cat, but she has the basic characteristics of a rat: nibbling on things, squeezing into impossible spaces, jumping on counters, and whatnot. She's more of a fly, buzzing about, annoying you and eating what she pleases. Yes, she is a fly; a annoying, little fly with little mittens. She stalks you relentlessly until she gets what she wants (whether it is food or more food). As I turn, she's behind me, staring with that sleepy-eyed constant stare until I get up and off she buzzes about, looking for something to squeeze herself under.

--

Date/Time:Wednesday, May 24, 2006/10:09 p.m.

Those flashing lights, oddly patriotic, make you want to puke. Seriously, they are bloody horrific. You feel like your head's going to spin out of control and every movement is shadowed with red, white or blue. Do you think that's a coincidence?

Let's flash back, dear readers, to a warm, clean (reversed) apartment, with broken spanish and english and shots that came up with chips and salsa. What about movement that moved the world, slowly, fluid like and that sunlight--that sunlight--but more importantly, the table. A dedication of drunkeness and someone else's life. Trips to Mexico and work visas. Sara, the beautiful name of Sara, and her son Grizaldo. How about given gifts and the oh, so friendly husband's brother. This broken conversations and a half way meeting across the table. Love, family, neighbors, and drunkeness. How about hospitality, bruised tailbones, and the afterglow of dizziness and bad tastes. Bohemia and the introduction of the new, and the strangeness of ourselves. Now, I look at the a closed door across the hall, and I feel warmth. Warmth from the alcohol, the sun, and more important warmth from warmth itself.

Well, let's see. I woke up this morning feeling nothing. It was such an intense nothing I just laid in bed until the alarm clock went off. Then, once it went off, I just hit the snooze button and crawled back in bed again for another round. I ask myself, "How should I feel? What should I feel?" Yesterday was my grandmother's brithday and she was especially tickled by the surprise of roses that were on her door step. She called to tell how beautiful they were and she arranged them in the vase that came with the roses. She is possibly the most sweestest person I know, hands down. That makes me feel happy.

Well, I've got videos to return and food to cram down my craw before I'm late.

Lesson for today: Buy someone flowers and take Peter Pan's advice.

--

Date/Time:Saturday, May 13, 2006/10:50 p.m.

I think the shave was a curse. I get this new found respect, but comes with it bad luck. Near eviction notices, terminitation threats from utilities, fuck ups at work, sleepiness, torn fingernail, the feeling of fattness, a dead baby bird, the constant feeling to crawl in a corner and sob while being covered in styrofoam, the lack of touch, the lack of seeing D--, the heat, the lack of an identity, and being on the rag. Oh, the bloody, emotional rag.

Something's gotta give, here.

Okay, that was fucking pessimistic. Let's list the good things: I just found two dollars in my jacket, D-- got paid and finally got a hit from a machine, the eviction notice was taken care of, today's my friday, Me and You and Everyone We Know was a brilliant movie, my new motivation to paint, I recieved my glasses in the mail, Clem looks so cute on the floor, I'm surround by all my things, I have someone to love, and they love me.

Life is fucking absurd, but it's beautiful.

--

Date/Time:Thursday, May 11, 2006/11:57 p.m.

Have you ever seen a baby bird fallen from its nest? So frail and soft that it's little eyes are still closed and all it can do is lay and breathe; Its little rib cage collapsing and expanding with its little puffs of breath that are as dainty as the soft landing of the feather. Its little, soft bones rippling its plush skin, still without feathers.

I blame myself for not picking it up when I had the chance to. I wanted to get my under-shirt and nuzzle it comfortably against me to protect it from some piece of shitís rubber sole of their shoe, in which the poor dear had inevitably met. I walked outside to see, but really didn't want to. I wanted to know if it was still breathing, but I knew it wasn't. I was supposed to protect it, but that's not how it turned out. And I think if I had grabbed it, I at least could have made an effort, and if things didn't go well, at least I would have known. I walked outside and everything was still soft, polite, but glistening in the harsh light of the parking lot. Its frail little body pushed onto that dirty concrete under so much pressure that its little daintiness just couldn't take it. That fucking pussy of a man (I'm 99.9% sure it was a man) forcing all its weight on this tiniest of undeveloped creatures with its baby wings so soft, now just smeared. I tried to tell myself the poor thing would have died anyhow; within my care, or underneath a shoe. But I ask to myself, how? How can some one just put their fucking shoe on such a living thing and press?

I walked back inside and the tears just fell. Yeah, I hate crying at work, but I was just so overwhelmed with my disgust for humanity, the disappointment in myself, and the sadness of such a soft, beautiful thing being smeared against the cement. I was also pissed at everyone's attitude. As usual everyone kind of left me to myself and I walked away without saying anything but a few sniffles. I feel I'm a strong girl, but I've got a weakness and itís soft, dainty, helpless and all over the cement.